


Let This Dream Last

by spacehopper



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Breakfast, Fluff, Hair Washing, Light Angst, M/M, Post-MAG180, Shaving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:55:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26639935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacehopper/pseuds/spacehopper
Summary: Jon and Martin steal a moment for themselves, in a house outside the end of the world.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 13
Kudos: 216





	Let This Dream Last

The bed was empty when Martin woke up. 

It probably didn’t mean anything, he told himself, even as he scrambled to his feet, the dregs of sleep tossed aside in the face of blind panic. Sure, this was all probably a trap, but if it was a trap, why would they have left Martin in his comfy bed? Except no, no that did make sense, because they only cared about Jon anyway, and leaving him behind did make sense. Maybe they’d left, taken Jon and run off to execute whatever nefarious master plan they had. And now Martin was stuck here, in a grand, empty house. All alone again. 

Or maybe not alone, because a door was swinging open. Martin’s eyes darted around the room, landing on an absurdly ornate candlestick. Heavy in his hands, proper expensive and exactly what he needed. Not that it’d do much good, but at least he could put up some token resistance. 

The door opened fully, and Martin’s grip tightened. 

“The bathtub is brilliant, Martin. You really need to see it.” Jon’s eyes widened as he took in Martin, who held the candlestick aloft. “Martin…?” 

It was just Jon. Horridly grubby, his hair shaggy and greasy, and most surprisingly, possessing a rather full beard Martin could’ve sworn hadn’t been there when they’d fallen asleep. The candlestick slipped from his fingers and hit the rug with a thud. Before Jon could say anything else, Martin rushed forward and pulled Jon into his arms.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” Jon smoothed a hand over his back, his other arm tight around Martin’s waist. “I’m fine. Not kidnapped or wrapped up in web or whatever else you were imagining.” 

“Shut up,” Martin said, burying his face in Jon’s hair. It really wasn’t pleasant, slick against his cheek and likely smearing and mixing with his own layer of grime. But he honestly didn’t care. Or well, at least not enough to let Jon go without another squeeze, before finally stepping back. “I’m right to be worried, you know.”

“I know,” Jon said, mouth quirking up into a small smile. “But we’re fine. At least for now. And there’s food.” He waved a hand at a small table Martin had missed before. On it sat an empty plate smeared with yellow and red and flecked with bits of toast. Across from it was another plate, covered with one of those domed silver covers he was certain there was a name for, but it wasn’t the sort of thing that came up much, was it? 

Martin went over to the table, tapping the dome curiously. 

“It’s called a cloche.”

He looked up to see Jon sitting down across from him, nodding at the silver dome. “I only know it myself because I did a bit of a research on a cursed one we have in Artefact Storage. When you picked it up again, well, let’s say the food looked a bit different.” 

Even with the vague description, Martin’s stomach churned unpleasantly. Though maybe that was just hunger, returned after so long. So best be getting to that, then. He took his seat, and set the domed cover—the cloche—aside.

“They’re really giving us the bed and breakfast treatment,” Jon said, gesturing at the plate heaped with eggs, beans, sausages, mushrooms and tomatoes, and a stack of perfectly toasted bread. “And I’m quite confident it’s not poisoned.”

“I didn’t think it was,” Martin said, pointedly spooning some beans onto his toast and taking a bite. 

He chewed slowly, savoring the grainy bread, the small seeds crunching against his teeth, the sweetness of the tomato sauce. Simple, but utterly wonderful. So easy to gobble it down, but he knew that was never a good idea when you hadn’t eaten in a while. Best to take it slow, and savor it. Particularly when he didn’t know when his next meal might be. 

Jon seemed content to watch him eat, sliding a leg between Martin’s, bracketing him on the other side. Just sitting here with Jon like this, it was almost as wonderful as the food. So wonderful Martin found himself loath to break the silence. But still, he couldn’t quite let the question go.

“How did you know I was wondering what that was called?” He put his hand on the cloche. 

“I didn’t know it. I just…guessed you were probably wondering, the normal way. Because I know you. That’s all.” He shrugged, seeming almost sheepish at the admission. If Martin hadn’t had a mouthful of toast, he probably would’ve called Jon adorable again, or said something dreadfully soppy. Instead, he contented himself with rubbing his foot gently against Jon’s calf, and was rewarded with a smile. 

After a few more minutes passed, eating while Jon watched, Jon stood abruptly, crossing to another table to pick up a pot of tea and two cups. He set them on the table and poured, adding sugar and milk to Martin’s and leaving his own black. Then he pushed the cup towards Martin, and said almost giddily, “I can’t promise it’s really tea. But hopefully it does the trick regardless.”

Martin couldn’t help but regard the cup a bit dubiously, not nearly as excited as Jon about the prospect of maybe murderous tea that neither of them could spot. But he supposed they’d already committed to the entire breakfast situation, so a little tea on top of that probably wouldn’t hurt. And as he brought it to his lips, he couldn’t quite contain the noise of sheer happiness as the warm liquid flowed over his tongue. 

When he set the cup down, Jon was watching him again. Still smiling, eyes crinkled with a fondness that made Martin squirm. What had he done, to get Jon to look at him like that? But maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe it hadn’t really been any specific thing. Just a thousand little moments, pulling them slowly together. Until looks like that just started to make sense. 

He sopped up the last remnants of the meal with his toast, and washed it down with another cup of tea. His hunger sated, he could no longer ignore the smell that was coming off him. Both of them, really. And it didn’t exactly feel pleasant either. So he got to his feet with a groan, raising his hands above his head and trying to work out a few of the kinks of weeks or more of walking without rest. 

Jon stepped into his space, leaning in to give him a kiss. And oh God, he loved Jon, but that really was revolting. Stale breath and the smell was even worse up close. Given the look on Jon’s face when he stepped back, Martin clearly wasn’t alone in his assessment. But now, they could fix that. 

“You mentioned a bathtub?”

* * *

“You can have the first shower, if you’d like.” 

Jon shifted next to him, swaying slightly away, though whether from nervousness or the smell, Martin hadn’t the faintest. And right now, he was far more concerned about dealing with that smell, peeling his unnaturally stiff shirt off and dropping it to the floor, where it held its shape worryingly well. 

“Good lord, it looks like it might stand up and walk away.” Jon poked it with a toe, and it did at least seem to lose a bit of its shape. 

“Please don’t say that. Given who we’re staying with…” He wiggled his fingers suggestively, and Jon shuddered. 

“Good point. Though I think it’s safe enough here, even with our hosts. At least when it comes to any potential puppeted clothing.” Jon stopped prodding the shirt, though he gave it one last wary look before turning back to Martin. 

“Do you just think that, or…?” 

“No, Martin. I don’t _know._ ” He wrapped his arms around his torso, and shivered. “It’s…it’s strange.”

In all the chaos, and Jon’s own excitement, Martin hadn’t really thought about it. What it must be like, to know absolutely everything, or something close to it, and then just…not. It was a good thing, probably. Had to be a good thing, a small hope that maybe, just maybe, there was a way to sever Jon from the Eye. One that wasn’t fatal, maybe wouldn’t even hurt. And yet...

“Are you, you know, okay?” He placed a hand on Jon’s neck, tentative though he really should be sure of his welcome by now. For a moment, Jon didn’t answer, seemingly set on studying the shining marble floor they’d already managed to streak with dirt.

“Yes,” Jon said finally, looking up at Martin. “I—” He swallowed, and brought a hand up to rest on Martin’s chest, just over his heart. “I think I am.”

“Good. I just, you’ll tell me, right? If you need me?” 

“Oh, Martin.” Jon laughed softly. “I always need you.” 

He leaned in slightly, but seemed to think better of trying to kiss Martin again. At least not until they’d both had a chance to do something about the state they were in. 

“You know,” Martin said, tugging at the hem of Jon’s shirt. “It’s a big shower.” His heart fluttered, but he pushed forward. There had never really been the chance for this, in the tiny cubbyhole that passed for a shower in the safe house. “We could share. If you want.” When Jon simply blinked at him, Martin hastily added, “Unless you don’t want to, that’s fine, we don’t have to, I can just go—” 

He cut himself off before he could dig himself deeper, trying to pull away, only to be stopped by Jon’s free hand gripping his arm with surprising strength. 

“I— If that’s what you’d like, I think…I think it might be nice.” Jon’s fingers curled against Martin’s chest, and his mouth curved into another smile. 

And even if it was a bit revolting, Martin still found himself kissing Jon, just to feel that smile against his lips.

* * *

Having the space to shower together and navigating it turned out to be two very different things. The clothes removal went smoothly enough, the whole horrific mound kicked into a corner were hopefully someone would retrieve and burn them. Salesa, Annabelle, or a million tiny spiders, he didn’t much care. Though if it was the spiders, he might need to talk Jon down after.

But that was a problem for later. Right now he had more pressing concerns, bracing himself with a hand against the wall as Jon clung to him, laughing helplessly into his shoulder, beard rubbing against Martin’s skin. He’d nearly careened into the wall when he’d managed to step on the bar of soap. Which had been immediately after Martin elbowed him sharply in the gut trying to retrieve that soap, only to proceed to slam his other elbow into the shower handle. 

“We really are a mess, aren’t we,” Jon mumbled into his skin. 

“A bit, yeah.”

Martin snaked an arm around Jon’s waist, holding him under the water as he teased out the tangles in his hair, watching the grey water cascade down his back and swirl into the drain. Luckily there was shampoo on a small shelf on the wall in front of him. Letting Jon go right now seemed dangerous. And maybe he didn’t want to let go just yet. 

Though Jon himself wasn’t making that easy, squirming as Martin tried to keep an arm around him, while reaching for the shampoo. It had a pump, almost as if Annabelle or Salesa or whoever had stocked the bathroom had considered exactly this eventuality, that Martin would need to gather some one handed, before gently massaging it into Jon’s hair. A chilling thought, but one he shoved aside for now. Probably just a coincidence, and even if it wasn’t, he had more important things right in front of him. 

“You don’t need to do that, you know,” Jon said, tilting his head up to peer at Martin, droplets of water caught in his eyelashes. “I’m perfectly capable of washing my own hair.”

“If you don’t close your eyes, I’m going to get soap in them. And I want to, it’s just…it’s nice, you know?” 

As he worked the shampoo through the strands, the grease and dirt of travel slowly slipping away, leaving only soft dark hair sprinkled liberally with grey. He kept running his fingers through it even as the soap washed out, enjoying the way the tension in Jon seemed to seep away, swept down the drain alongside the much more physical evidence of their journey. 

When the last suds were finally gone, Martin leaned forward, letting the spray beat down on his head as he placed a kiss on Jon’s crown. Smiling into his hair and inhaling the fresh, faintly minty scent of the shampoo, and listening to the pounding of the water. 

“Let me do you,” Jon said, after a few minutes passed, pressing a hand lightly against Martin’s chest. “It’s really the least I can do.”

“Alright,” Martin said, reluctantly pulling back the few inches necessary, and dipping his head to allow Jon to work his fingers through his hair. 

Jon’s fingers were long and nimble. It was one of the first things Martin had noticed about him, watching the way he’d twirl pens between them, the way they’d perch on along the side of a mug. A bit like the legs of a spider, he’d thought. Jon would hate the comparison, and Martin couldn’t blame him for it. But it wasn’t a bad thing. Spiders were quick, precise, drawing their webs carefully into place much how Jon would drag his pen in exacting lines to form letters on a page, some note to himself or criticism or muttered thought he didn’t want to forget. 

But now, moving across his scalp, digging into his skin and dragging away the horrors bit by bit, it seemed far from an adequate comparison. Spiders wouldn’t do such a good job at massaging in all the right places. Martin pressed closer to Jon, buying his face in Jon’s neck. Jon ran his hand gently over Martin’s hair before continuing to work the shampoo in. Finding all the crevices Martin might’ve missed, and leaving them clean of everything but his touch. 

“We can’t stay in here forever,” Jon said. 

“That sounds like a challenge. I think we could manage.” 

Jon laughed softly, still petting Martin’s hair with a feather-light touch. “But if we stay in here, we can’t use the ridiculous bathtub. Certainly that’s worth a bit of investigation?” 

“God, a bath sounds wonderful,” Martin said with a groan as he drew away from Jon, taking his hand. “I guess we can do a bit more investigating, if it’s that.”

* * *

A pair of fluffy bathrobes and another aborted attempt to kiss Jon lead them both to the double sink, where they found toothbrushes and toothpaste. And a very, very large mirror, that Jon was studying rather intently as Martin went to turn on the water for the bath.

“Good lord, I look ancient, don’t I?”

Martin turned back to Jon to see him stroking his honestly rather impressive beard. He supposed the growth must be another effect of time catching up to them, one that had unsurprisingly left Martin with far less noticeable sparse stubble. His past attempts to grow a beard had all been rubbish, and it seemed the apocalypse hadn’t changed that.

“I don’t know, I think you look distinguished. I’ve always liked older men. And anyway, didn’t you want to look older?”

“Oh Christ, you still remember that?” Jon groaned. “I was such a pompous ass back then.” 

“I guess I’ve always had a thing for pompous asses as well.” Martin grabbed Jon’s arm, tugging him closer by his bicep and kissing him with far more enthusiasm than before, tongue sliding into his mouth, enjoying the simple pleasure of it. The scrape of a beard on his cheeks was new, but he thought he might be able to get used to it. 

“No accounting for taste,” Jon said, when they broke apart. His hand went to his jaw again, rubbing at the beard. “I really need to do something about this.” 

“Let me,” Martin said, his eyes falling on a rather extensive set of shaving supplies sitting on the counter. “I…well, it’s going to sound a bit daft.” 

“Go on,” Jon said, leaning back against the counter and raising his eyebrows expectantly. “You can be absolutely certain I can’t cheat here.” 

Martin felt his face heating. Why was this, of all things, the thing that made him tongue tied? Okay, not just this, but it was worse when he’d been the one to bring it up, and it wasn’t that weird, was it? Or at least not weirder than anything else Jon knew about him. 

“You know how after Prentiss, you sort of…didn’t shave as much for a while?”

Jon dragged a hand over his face, and sighed. “Yes, that—well, I didn’t really have much of anything under control. Shaving was the least of my concern.” He snorted. “And I’ll admit, I thought the beard might make me less distinctive? For, well, you know.”

“For stalking people?”

Jon winced. “Yes, that.”

“I think it made it worse, actually.” He still remembered what Tim had said to him, seeing a creepy bearded man who was obviously Jon, and how the scruffy beard only made him look more unhinged than he already was. And Martin had to admit, he hadn’t entirely disagreed. Though he thought it looked much better when Jon smiled.

“I know that now,” Jon said, hunching his shoulders. “You were saying?”

At least Martin wasn’t the only one making embarrassing confessions. As silly as it was, that steeled his resolve to push on.

“I used to fantasize about shaving you. And more than fantasize, I kind of researched it?” 

“You…researched shaving?” Jon’s eyes fell on Martin’s face. “Surely you know how?”

“I mean, yes, though I obviously don’t have to as much.” He stroked his own chin self-consciously. “But I sort of fell into watching videos about the best ways to shave someone else? It’s a bit different, and well, romantic gesture and all if you really do it properly, and I thought…you know, if you’d let me do that…” God, he was starting to regret saying anything. 

“It’d mean I trusted you.” Jon pushed off the counter, reaching out of grab the front of Martin’s bathrobe, rubbing the fabric between his fingers contemplatively. 

“Yeah. But it’s stupid, don’t worry about it. And anyway, I think the beard is nice.” He tried to pull away to turn back to the slowly filling tub, but Jon kept a firm grip on his robe. 

“I’d love it. If you’d do that for me.” Jon let go, stepping back to lean against the counter again, and offering Martin a tentative smile. The expression tugged on a small scar Martin could see in his beard. One from the worms, that got far, far too close for Martin’s comfort. He wondered if that might’ve also figured into Jon’s choice to try a beard. Maybe someday, Jon would tell him.

But for now, he had a job to do. So he went to fetch the supplies, all graciously provided. The brush that seemed to be real badger bristle, the quality shaving cream, and a small bottle of moisturizer. Then he filled a bowl with hot water, and eyed the two razors laid out side by side. As tempted as he was by the straight razor, now probably wasn’t the time to experiment, so he brought the safety razor over to Jon was well, along with a styptic pencil. 

The last, Jon eyed warily. “I really hope there’s some alternative. I hate those things, they burn like nothing else. I’d rather bleed.” 

“Seriously?” When Jon simply stared at him mulishly, Martin relented. “Fine, if I cut you, I’ll go get a plaster out of my bag. Happy?”

“Yes.” Jon cleared his throat. “Believe it or not, I do try and avoid unnecessary pain. So, how do we do this?” 

“I mean, pretty much like normal? I guess a bit more elaborate, but just…I’ll let you know what to do? If I need you to move, that sort of thing.”

“Alright,” Jon said. And that was it. Martin was going to live out one of his silliest, most cherished fantasies. And he’d just have to hope he didn’t slice Jon’s face open achieving it.

Despite his nervousness, his hands remained steady as he wet the brush and carefully applied the shaving cream. Jon proved a rather obliging subject, tipping his head at the slightest touch of Martin’s fingers, eyes fluttering shut as Martin continued to carefully layer it on. 

That done, he reached for the razor, adjusting it nervously in his fingers. Jon remained quiet and still, fingers curled around the edge of the granite counter, breathing steady. God, he really did trust Martin, didn’t he? He swallowed, and placed his fingers against Jon’s cheekbone, pulling the skin taut, and slowly drawing the razor over it. 

“Martin,” Jon said, after Martin had made the first few passes. 

“Don’t talk, or I’ll cut you.” He tapped Jon’s cheek sharply with the back of the razor, and Jon opened his eyes to give Martin a look that really wasn’t warranted. “Oh, you’ll live. You don’t have to narrate literally everything.”

“I don’t narrate everything. You know it’s just—” 

“Shh,” Martin said, placing the handle of the razor against Jon’s lips, while Jon glared at him. “Just relax.”

“Fine,” Jon said when Martin pulled the razor back. 

His eyes drifted shut again, and Martin moved to the other side, removing the sideburns before turning to his cheeks. The only sounds left in the room was their mingled breathing, the steady passes of the razor, and the sound of the water filling the bathtub. He really hoped it was large enough it didn’t overflow, but then if they ruined this bathroom, he supposed there had to be another. And he was going to enjoy this while it lasted. The small twitches of the muscles in Jon’s face. The nicks and small scars, the creases in Jon’s forehead, and the crow’s feet around his eyes. All revealed as Martin carefully shaved the beard away. 

The crow’s feet he kissed as he set the razor aside, drawing back to a questioning look from Jon. One that earned him another kiss at the corner of the other eye, before Martin reached for the bottle of moisturizer and began to massage it into Jon’s cheeks, wincing as he noticed a small cut he hadn’t realized he’d made.

When he stepped back towards the door, Jon gave him a quizzical look, rubbing his fingers over his now smooth face.

“Getting a plaster,” Martin said, ducking out. 

It didn’t take too long to find their meager belongs, stuffed into the bottom of the wardrobe. Nor did it take all that long to find one of the many plasters he’d packed, who knew how long ago when they’d left. But it was still long enough that when he got back, he found Jon standing over the bathtub with wide eyes, staring down into the swirling purple waters. 

“Please tell me the bathwater isn’t cursed,” Martin said, coming to a stop next to him.

“I don’t think so. Or at least I’m fairly certain that was an ordinary bath bomb.” Jon prodded the purple water, and as Martin examined it more closely, he noticed flecks of gold. “I thought it would be, well…” Jon cleared his throat, shooting Martin a nervous glance. “Romantic, I suppose? It’s a bit more colorful than I expected.”

“Oh, Jon,” Martin said, pulled Jon away from the bathtub and taking his face in his hands to place the plaster over his cut. When that was done, he kissed Jon’s forehead. “It’s lovely. Though next time, maybe one without glitter?”

“Absolutely,” Jon said. “I swear I didn’t realize how much glitter was in there. I suppose it’s a good reason to take another dozen or so showers.” 

“Glitter is an eldritch horror all its own,” Martin agreed. “But I think we have enough experience to take it on now.” 

He turned off the water, and hung his robe over the heated rack, before holding out a hand for Jon’s robe. But Jon didn’t hand it to him, instead reaching into his pocket to pull out a lighter, flicking it on to light the candles Martin had only just noticed were placed around the bathtub. 

“Hopefully it makes up for the glitter a bit,” Jon said, tucking the lighter back into his pocket and handing the robe to Martin. 

Any words Martin might’ve said caught in his throat. He hung up the robe, and just stared at Jon’s bony shoulders, letting his gaze trail up to his neck, marking the wicked scar there, before moving to his face, noting the furrowed brow as he tested the temperature, the delight when he deemed it suitable. 

“Ready?” He held out a hand for Martin, one he gladly took, letting Jon help him into the bath before Jon settled beside him.

They shifted around awkwardly, the tub so large they were able to sit side by side as the water sloshed around them. Their thighs touched, and Martin traced patterns in the water, watching the glitter shift and sparkle. Not moving, not speaking. Not sure what he was waiting for.

“This is ridiculous,” Jon said.

Before Martin could ask him what he meant, he found himself being tugged bodily into Jon’s lap. It was only dumb luck that stopped any more sensitive collisions, but once he figured out what Jon wanted, he let himself be manhandled into position, an arm wound tightly around his chest.

“I hope I’m not squishing you,” Martin said, as he settled tentatively against Jon’s chest, letting his head fall back on Jon’s shoulder to look up at him.

“You’re not. It’s water, I have to actively hold onto you to keep you from floating away.” The arm around Martin’s chest tightened as if to emphasize the point, and Martin’s heart tightened with it.

“Please keep holding on,” Martin said. Knowing he sounded almost plaintive, and not really caring. Not when this was so fragile, so easily shattered, broken into the howling terror of the world outside. 

The water sloshed, and he felt Jon’s chest rise and fall against his back. He could let it go. The topic they’d dodged around, that Martin had nearly brought up with his plea, likely ruining this peace. But he couldn’t pretend this was it, that they really were in some posh bed and breakfast, on holiday from their only slightly abnormal jobs. That he only had to worry about losing Jon to overwork, or disinterest. 

That there was any hope at all, if Jon let go. 

“Jon, we should talk about this. What we’re doing next.” From the angle his head was at, he could see Jon’s face, the way his lips moved, twisting between expressions Martin couldn’t name. He turned his head to press a kiss to Jon’s neck, and then fell silent. Waiting. He’d always been so good at waiting. 

“Please. Not…” Jon sucked in a breath, and let it out all at once. “I know I don’t really have any right to ask it. But please, not now. It’s been so long since I could just…be me. And having you here, like this, I—” He laughed, and it was sadder than Martin liked. “I love you. And I just want, just for a little bit…I want us to just be us. No supernatural voyeurs, no terrifying powers. I know it can’t be forever. But…”

The angle was terrible, Martin reaching back to tangle his fingers in Jon’s hair, dragging his head down into a kiss. More teeth than was entirely pleasant, and he could taste the faintest hint of artificial rose on Jon’s lips, courtesy of the bath bomb. Their noses banged together, but Martin only held on tighter, kissing Jon and letting Jon kiss him back, desperate and hot and yes, entirely his. If only just for now. 

And then he let go. Smiling, as he traced a finger over Jon’s cheek, and failed to wipe away the flecks of gold.

“I hope Salesa appreciates glitter,” Martin said. Such a small thing, bringing out the gold in Jon’s eyes. Eyes that for now, he was almost sure were only Jon’s. 

“I don’t think I care if he does.” He rubbed his thumb along Martin’s jaw. “I have to say, I’m coming around to it. I think it suits you.” 

“I knew you were a monster,” Martin said, and he felt impossibly warm when Jon laughed.

Later, they’d have to face the world. Find out what Salesa wanted, and Annabelle. And where they’d go next.

But for now, Martin pulled Jon into another kiss. Let this dream last a little longer.


End file.
